


I am the Master of My Fate

by fanfictional_insomnia



Series: Spica Black and the Mastery of Death [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonesque relationships, Death's perspective, Deathly Hallows ending divergent, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Harry Potter is Spica Black, Harry Potter is the Heir to the House of Black, King's Cross Station and implications explored further, Master of Death (Harry Potter), The Deathly Hallows, start of a mega-crossover series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21813508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictional_insomnia/pseuds/fanfictional_insomnia
Summary: Master of Death wasn’t merely a cute title or an empty human phrase. Death needs a master for all those pesky human interactions he can’t handle from a metaphysical plane. Collecting the Deathly Hallows is only the beginning. A true Master will need to pass another test. Fortunately, Death has a pretty good idea that this mortal will eventually succeed on the ultimate quest.In other words, this is the story of how a little girl grew up to become the Master of Death.
Relationships: Death & Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Lily Evans Potter
Series: Spica Black and the Mastery of Death [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571788
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	1. Death's Birth Day Musings

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Caveat Lector  
> 
> 
> Over a couple of years of late nights battling frequent insomnia, I compiled a ridiculously long storyline that was my thought experiment response to a statement I once read claiming that you could tie Harry Potter into any other fandom. So,  
> 
> 
> Warning one: The whole course of this series will be a MEGA crossover. Usually only one or two will be colliding with Harry Potter at a time but the majority of the stories feature the main character in a different universe with a different fandom (warning one.five: I’ve tied in over 40 fandoms. In general ‘Harry’ flits into the different worlds either by being an added character to an already established ensemble, replacing a known character with the MoD, or doing a fusion of one fandom into the rules of the HP world. This does make it possible for one to skip installments that converge with fandoms one is unfamiliar with). Barring a few major differences (see next warning), the Harry Potter universe itself will be pretty consistent with the canon of the original seven books. I’ve never been that interested in chasing all of Rowling’s later commentary though as a devoted fanfiction reader I’m familiar with much of it at this point which I might incorporate on a needs basis. We’ll leave “Cursed Child” out of it completely. “Fantastic Beasts” came out long after I had the idea solidified (even without the writing finalized) so any incorporation of things unique to that film is incidental and infrequent.  
> 
> 
> Warning two: As inherent in the title and as will become very obvious in the first few paragraphs, I have taken some liberties with the name, parentage, and gender of our hero. Yes, Harry is now Spica, daughter of Lily Evans and Sirius Black. Why would I change these three points? Well, for the sake of the larger plot where I blend Harry Potter into a trillion other fandoms. For various reasons, having a female master of death worked better (probably because there are a disproportionate amount of male protagonists in things anyway). I have always loved all the Black family connections to the stars and a different insomnia exercise resulted in my coming up with a lot of clever star connections….so I just merged that into this plotline approximately three years ago (it took a long time for me to actually write all it down and not just think it). And lastly, the most significant plot reason for the change will be a central story in….parts 20 and 21. So patience my friends, there is a reason.  
> 
> 
> That being said, I have tried to keep Spica as a female version of Harry (who eventually has a lot of different experiences so will grow as a person over time). For instance, she’ll still be good at quidditch, she’ll still grow up with the Dursley’s etc.  
> 
> 
> I hope that this story is as enjoyable to others to read as it has been for me to imagine over the last few years. I will also say I’m a hopeless romantic so sweet (or ridiculous or dramatic) love stories abound.

_“Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
_ _I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul. _

_In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.  
_

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds and shall find me unafraid. _

_It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
**I am the master of my fate,**   
I am the captain of my soul. “ _

_-Invictus, William Ernest Henley_

**Chapter One: Death’s Birth Day Musings**

It wasn’t necessary, strictly speaking, for him to observe a mortal’s life chronologically. In fact, as so many people lived mundane lives, they lived lifetimes with little variation across a plethora of worlds regardless of whatever vagaries of magic or science made each of the universes unique in and of itself. When it came time for Death to usher a soul into either an echoing world or the next great adventure, he could review the life at will. Thus, chronological (let alone synchronous) observance seemed an unnecessary indulgence for the entity.

More to the point, this particular soul had the habit (sometimes to Death’s chagrin, often to his delight, and generally to his (and every mortal’s) benefit) of popping up all over the universes. She’d already been in this particular Earth eight times already. Death, in other days, might have been annoyed at the level of attention she was attracting on yet another entry into a world. But today he was feeling a bit indulgent to the girl who was experiencing a true first. Death could justify the unusual level of observance this once.

Despite her omnipresence across the universes, she’d only ever been _born_ one time. She lived no mundane repeat life on any planet. She began, unlike almost everyone else, in only one place, and that was here, on Death’s thirteenth created world. And so Death watched eagerly from the metaplane just next to existence and scarcely past his veil as, screaming and undignified, this soul made her presence known.

Death rarely stopped to fully observe birth, despite the necessity of birth in the grand order of things, but he took time for the full course today. If only his dear friend could see herself now, he thought with what others might call glee.

Knowing her name was a foregone conclusion, Death watched in amusement as mother and father debated her immortal moniker. So few people realized that the original name of a soul was with that soul forever and often named their tiny humans according to fads or trends. These two were at least basing it off of tradition. Lily, daughter of Iris and sister of Petunia, felt that their daughter should be called something flowery. Sirius, despite his antagonism for many of the Blacks he grew up with, still felt compelled to call his progeny for the landmarks of the firmament. He’d actually researched the Black family for generations in an attempt to find details to discomfit his mother and had been surprised to learn that the asterally based names traced back to the earliest record of a Black at the time of the Founders of Hogwarts. As he said to his wife, how could he deny a near millennium of tradition?

His argument was eventually deemed the more pressing and Lily conceded. She did insist on choosing a name that nobody in recent memory had borne (heaven forbid their child feel any kinship to dear cousin Bellatrix). In fact, she ended up choosing the star that hadn’t been picked in centuries (since the Founders themselves, Death knew, and he found the irony delicious).

Spica Lilac Black. There was the beginning of a name that, though unknown to most mortals all galaxies over, would shape millions of lives and even more deaths.

Having graced her illustrious birth with his almost presence, Death desisted from his keen scrutinizing (he already knew what color her eyes would be when they settled down from the generic blue of newborns and felt no need to listen to the young couple’s cheerful bickering) and so took himself off for other duties. He had so many souls to usher on since that meddlesome Tom Riddle hadn’t contented himself with merely upsetting nature’s balance with his vile horcruxes but was insisting on hastening the funerals of far too many others. Death would check back in when things got interesting again.

* * *

Over the next fifteen months, Death popped in to look over the small Black family and young Spica at least once a month. Sometimes he saw mundane little details but often he managed to happen upon moments that he felt were prologue to the future adventures of his old friend. One day he caught Lily singing a lullaby taught to her by Andromeda Black; he knew that lullaby would be sung to all of Spica’s children, whatever the universe. Another day he caught Spica's first laugh. Nominally the most important moment he’d caught was when Albus Dumbledore came to Sirius and Lily Black with a warning about a recently overheard prophecy.

Sirius and Lily were aghast and frightened by the fact that the wizard who had disrupted their childhood and whom they both diligently fought against was coming after their baby. Sirius had cursed at Dumbledore, Lily had held her daughter very close, and a series of plans to hide the Blacks from Tom Riddle were devised.

James Potter, inheritor of one of Death’s three hallows, came by to offer comfort to his friends and distraction for the baby. Death watched with amusement as James entertained his young goddaughter by playing hide and seek with his invisibility cloak. The infant was enthralled with the smooth fabric, giggling uncontrollably whenever she managed to touch it. Death had long suspected that his master held a special fondness for this cloak over the other hallows—definitely over the wand—and it had seemed that this fascination had started early.

Death felt a pang of sorrow for these young and vibrant lives, lives he knew were soon to meet violent ends. But he couldn't interfere. For multiple reasons—most of which would be solved by having a master to work with—but especially because these moments were crucial in providing the master he needed. Death busied himself with collecting more and more souls as All Hallow's Eve grew closer and closer.

The Blacks, after months of more transitive hiding, went under the Fidelius Charm. James Potter, best friend, brother, and godfather to the little family became the Secret Keeper. Dumbledore sought vainly to understand the power of the Cloak of Invisibility, convincing himself that the fabled Mastery of Death might be what the prophecy was alluding to. Remus Lupin continued to spy on Riddle's group of werewolf allies. Severus Snape continued to spy on Death Eaters while telling Riddle information carefully concocted with Dumbledore, desperate to somehow save Lily Evans. Peter Pettigrew grew even more desperate to escape Riddle's negative attention through offering up one great final reward.

As October 31 dawned in Great Britain, Death stood on standby. He had some very important souls to collect today. Later historians would fail to grasp exactly how early in the day the critical events came into play. In the dawn's light Peter Pettigrew and the other Death Eaters planned their assault on muggles and bloodtraitors, excited to use the muggle traditions of costumes and revelry as cover for their own assaults.

Pettigrew, reveling in his important information, told Voldemort that he knew how to deliver the Blacks to him. It was only a small gathering at this point. Pettigrew had been anxious to impress but had not been permitted to speak in front of the whole inner circle. Only a few of Tom Riddle's favorites—Bellatrix, Lucius, the Lestrange brothers, Augustus—were there to listen as Riddle debated the merits of the pureblooded Longbottom heir over the halfblood (but now suddenly graspable) baby Black. In the end, Pettigrew led his mad master to the hiding place of one James Potter.

The last Ignotus Peverell descendant was loyal. He would die before betraying his friends. Sirius and Lily had chosen well in that regard. James Potter would never imagine that a close friend could betray him. Death watched as James realized that Peter had brought Voldemort to his home. Death was impressed. Perhaps in another situation, this Peverell would have been the one to gather all the Hallows. He had the courage to stand firm in his love even in the face of great betrayal, hatred, and pain. He could have been a good Master of Death. But that was not to be his fate. Death watched as the magic of this night and the critical choices of seven powerful wizards all came into play. 

There was after all, a flaw in the Fidelius charm. In the end, James Potter—battered, broken, and bloody—did not have to tell the Secret. Defiantly, James Potter pulled himself upright. He was wandless. He was injured, he was nearly dead. Still, he stared at Voldemort and defied him again.

"I will die before I tell you where Sirius and Lily are. They are my family."

Tom Riddle laughed, high, clear, and cruel. "How much faith you place in friendship, Potter." Here Riddle twitched his wand, yanking Pettigrew out of the dark corner he was cowering in as his longtime friend was tortured. For one terrible moment, James and Peter met eyes. "Even when you see that others will betray you. Wormtail—that is what you call him isn't it?" Riddle asked with faux solicitousness. "Wormtail here is happy enough to give you up to save his own life. He is wiser than you. What do you think your death will prove? I'll still find them. When Wormtail first told me the Blacks were going to hide under the Fidelius charm, I researched it. Rookwood was eager to tell me all about it. When the Secret Keeper dies, every individual who knew this Secret becomes a Secret Keeper. And I have the feeling that you told it to Wormtail, didn't you?"

For one last moment, the two childhood friends had similar reactions. Both felt horror as this news came out. But Wormtail masked his quickly after a fleeting look at his chosen master. Death watched as both once friends turned their horror into resolve. Both had, after all, chosen their paths.

"Goodbye, James Potter. But let it not be imagined that Lord Voldemort is not merciful. Your _family_ will be joining you shortly." James Potter fell with the final flash of spellwork as if a marionette who had lost its strings. Dispassionately, Tom Riddle turned to the still cowering Pettigrew.

"Now, my _faithful_ servant, where do the Blacks live?"

* * *

Sirius Black fell quickly to Voldemort's wand. Voldemort barely spared a few moments to taunt that James Potter was dead and Pettigrew had betrayed him before cutting down the last son of the House of Black. Riddle was far too impatient to get rid of this ridiculous prophesied destruction. Death knew that Riddle thought he would further defy his doom by turning the murder of a child into his sixth and final horcrux. Stepping over Black's splayed body, Tom Riddle climbed the cottage stairs, towards the nursery where Lily Black could be heard desperately trying to barricade the door.

Voldemort laughed at the paltry defenses, blasting through them with ease. Death watched with interest. He knew the basics of why Spica Black had managed to defeat death at fifteen months old, but, just as he'd watched her birth with invested interest, he would watch the entirety of this scene. Lily Black dropped her child in the crib behind her before facing Riddle.

"Stand aside," Riddle uttered, eager to get the woman out of the way. Death knew this option to step aside was out of character for a man who would rather cut down obstacles than take a moment to move them out of his way. But Riddle, so grateful for Severus' report of a way to get rid of all of his competition had promised that he'd spare the woman's life. Death hovered as close to his young future master as he could from the next reality, feeling so grateful for the three adults who were giving their lives for this little girl. In the millennia he had worked with Spica he had not realized how fond he had grown of her. If Lily backed down, Spica would die and Death would lose his master apprentice, rewriting all the history of a thousand lives. After all, choices were the crux of the matter. 

But Lily did not back down. "Take me instead," she plead.

"Very well," said Riddle, not even realizing that he'd changed the terms of the promise he had made to Severus. Riddle had offered Severus Lily's life in exchange for the prophecy. And now he offered Lily her daughter's life in exchange for hers. Despite how Riddle thought that with his horcruxes he had a deeper understanding of death than any other, Death knew his understanding to be paltry. The why a someone died mattered. It mattered enormously. Souls lived eternally and how they lived and how they died rippled out, influencing fate itself. The self-proclaimed Voldemort killed Lily Evans Black. And then, disregarding the death promises he had made, he tried to kill Spica.

The nursery exploded around Tom Riddle. Spica was shielded by the love of her mother, by the love of her father and godfather, by the love of those who had been given a choice to save their own lives but instead chose to save hers. Death writhed briefly in anger that he couldn't collect Tom Riddle's soul. Instead, most of Riddle's mutilated soul fled away as Riddle's body tore itself apart. The little girl, who had been strangely quiet during her mother's final confrontation, at last started to wail, her forehead bleeding as a sliver of Riddle's soul took root in the lightening bolt cut. Death was surprised at his own desire to suddenly breach the partition between his metaplane and the plane of the mortals simply so he could pick up the child and comfort it. Spica Black truly had wormed her way into his heart, he realized. But he could not. The whole reason he needed a master was to have someone interfere in the realm of the mortals.

Powerless to hold the crying child, Death still lingered by. He watched as the cowardly Pettigrew scampered into the destroyed house. The rat transformed into a man, looking with horror at the torn robes and discarded yew wand that was all that marked where Voldemort had stood. Studiously ignoring the sight of his old friend's corpse or the crying child, Pettigrew stooped up and picked up Voldemort's wand. Then, looking furtively around as if someone would witness this act of loyalty to Tom Riddle, he quickly transformed back into a rat and scampered away.

Someone would come to find the child soon Death knew. After all, the explosion of power that had destroyed Riddle's body had also sent out a shock wave to all bound to the man through the Dark Mark. Dark detectors and other instruments would register the explosion and then the absence of the malevolent power. Those who had been under the control of Voldemort's imperius curses would be coming to themselves. But Death could not leave the screaming child, even as he was powerless to defend her. There had to be something he could do, though.

The idea did not come instantly, but Death did eventually conclude that he might be able to bend the usual rules a little bit. After all, Spica Black, by dint of inheriting all of James Potter's possessions as his only goddaughter, had just become the technical owner of her first Hallow. She might be sensitive to a whisper from the other side.

Hesitantly, Death began to sing the lullaby Lily Black had sung to her daughter every night. Death was no singer, and his voice lacked the sweetness of her mother's. However, Death realized, as he sang, that he felt the same sentiment for the child as Lily Black had as she sang the song. The tune was familiar to the black-haired baby. Spica looked around as the first line of the chorus began, _"I'm glad that you were born, Born to laugh, Born to dream, Born to spread your light..."_ Death was not exactly human, not exactly designed to smile. But as the little girl stopped crying in favor of clinging to the bars of her crib, looking down at her still mother while listening to her mother's song, Death managed a strange approximation of a wry smile. Though they had been master and apprentice for ages, this was in many ways the true beginning of Death and his Master, Spica Lilac Black.


	2. The Black Heir

Death continued to check in on Spica. He couldn't sing to her every night—he was far too busy and that might be pushing the boundaries a little far—but he checked in many times. He hated to see her stuffed away in a cupboard as if she was some horrible secret one could put of mind, but this little girl wasn't yet his master. He couldn't pull her to his metaplane and couldn't visit hers.

Still, on the nights that the little girl was particularly lonely, her eyes—now the shade of green that echoes the wizard's killing curse and that showed how closely she'd come to death—scrunched with unshed tears, Death continued to sing. As she grew older, the song only came when she was in that liminal space between awake and asleep. But as Death sang words that assured her that her being born was a gift, that she was loved, the girl always slipped peacefully into dreamland.

It was a decade of forced inaction for Death. Oh, the regular work trundled on but when he wanted something done in the mortal world, nothing. He'd grown used to having a master he could call up and have interfere when the world was getting too deathly, swinging too far on the pendulum but she was so helpless now. He'd locked in onto the timestream of this young, pre-master Master of Death. He could not call another one to run interference. He was Death but there were rules. So Death was as helpless as the child. He did what he could. Though Spica Black was growing into a quick runner and an effective hider once she started attending school with one Dudley Dursley, she wasn't infallible at either. Feeling that her mortal birthday and the anniversary of her first almost deathday ought to be commemorated (and no one in her life was doing so), Death felt he could justify lending his future master a little hint of his own legendary invisibility. Not so much as a cloak, but a sort of gossamer thread of unseeability. The first time he'd done it, he'd taken far too much satisfaction in little Dudley's confused grunts that he didn't know where the freak had gone. Spica had almost given away the whole thing when she giggled; but seeing as she was only five, Death had graciously decided he wouldn't hold it against his master when she was old enough for him to talk to. He simply regarded the girl from where she hid behind trash cans, almost smiled, and went on his way to usher some more souls along.

* * *

Spica Black had a deep desire she had never told anyone. She wanted long hair. When children teased her for her schoolboy hair cut, or when yet another relief teacher at school assumed she was a little boy (Dudley’s cast off rags completing the male impression), she pretended it didn’t faze her. Dudley and his gang were always keen to tease her each time this happened and she had made it a point of pride to never let Dudley know how much this bothered her.

Deep down though, she wanted hair long enough she could braid it or curl it or put it in a ponytail. Hair long enough that people would stop automatically assuming she was a boy. But Aunt Petunia would never allow it. She’d learned that the hard way. No, Aunt Petunia took great pleasure in shearing her hair off with a regularity that Spica had come to dread. The last day of the month was the designated day for Spica to lose whatever length she’d managed to grow in the month. Long ago, she’d realized that the day had been chosen specifically so that it would correspond with her birthday. The only remotely positive point about her haircuts was that Spica knew they could be worse. After that one inexplicable incident when Aunt Petunia had shorn off all but her bangs…only for it to grow back overnight…Spica had been allowed to keep her hair in a short bob with extra hair over her scar. It was invariably messy with her curly, black hair flowing wildly, but having seen the alternative, Spica accepted this as the best for which she could hope at present.

But still, every time the neighbors complained to her aunt and uncle about her looking like a disreputable boyish urchin and Aunt Petunia gaining their sympathies that they’ve ‘tried to stop her dressing like a boy but she refuses to wear anything but Dudley’s old clothes’, Spica kept her silence by promising herself that as soon as she was out of the house, she was going to grow her hair so long she could sit on it. In fact, ten-year-old Spica vowed with a vengeance (after one slight too many about her boyish appearance) that she might never cut her hair again.

Dreams such as these were necessary to surviving life with the Dursleys. And Spica had so many she used to occupy her time. Despite Aunt Petunia's constant sniffs about her hideous appearance, Spica thought that had she been allowed to get new clothes and her own haircut, she wouldn't look that bad. But even then, she wouldn't look like her Aunt Petunia. Her looks had to come from somewhere. She liked to think that perhaps all the Blacks had Black hair, black like hers, black like their name. She dreamed sometimes of someone singing to her. She liked to pretend it was her parents.

* * *

One of the things that had first endeared Rubeus Hagrid to the young witch was that he hadn’t made any comment about how she’d looked like a boy. He’d told her she looked a fair amount like her parents (resembling her father more in coloring but apparently she had her mother’s eyes), but hadn’t made one comment about thinking she was a boy. She knew she’d love him forever for that. He'd smiled at her like she was someone special, someone he was happy to meet and happy to see. Spica had never known such welcome in her life.

That night, as she slept under Hagrid’s bumpy coat, Spica had thought of all the strange truths she’d learned. She wasn’t a freak; she was a witch, and her mother had been one too. Her parents hadn't died drunkenly; they were heroes. She’d get to go away from school, go somewhere that Dudley’s influence couldn’t possibly reach. Maybe, since Hagrid hadn’t noticed that she’d been groomed like a boy, maybe fashion was so different for witches and wizards that nobody would think twice about her appearance. No more comments about how unattractive she was for a girl, no more jeering children. And with that happy thought, Spica fell asleep. She dreamed of flying on a motorbike once more, but now thinking that that was perhaps possible.

All of Spica’s hopes about being seen as a girl were brutally crushed the next day at Diagon Alley.

She’d slipped through the Leaky Caldron in Hagrid’s shadow, going through Gringotts (and seeing an actual dragon--though the way that the poor creature was treated had united she and Hagrid in deepest sympathies; Spica was sure there was a better way to get to her gold without torturing the poor creature), but when Hagrid went off to get a pint after and sent her to Madame Malkin’s, she had a rude awakening.

The assistant glanced at her, asked if she was there for school robes, and then bustled her off to a chair to be fitted. A pale blond boy was also there, and he immediately started a derisive monologue. While normally Spica would have had a snide remark for anybody who was so similar to Dudley, his referring to her as a boy was enough to make her keep her mouth shut in mortification.

Fortunately, the other boy finished a few minutes after she arrived. Once she was sure that the boy was gone, she tugged on the assistant’s robes. Taking a deep breath, she said,

“Excuse me ma’am, but I’m actually a girl, a witch.” The assistant looked up in shock from where she was hemming the robes.

“Unfortunate haircut,” Spica said glibly, hoping to get away from the topic. “I was raised in the muggle world,” she said, hoping that the woman wasn’t as concerned about parentage as the blond boy. “What do witches wear when they aren’t in Hogwarts uniforms?”

The woman smiled at her kindly and asked if she’d like to purchase some every day robes for weekends and time out of school.

“And no one will think I am a boy—despite the haircut—when I wear them?” The assistant assured her that they wouldn’t and Spica gave her a large grin. The wizarding world was everything Aunt Petunia would disapprove of, and Spica was going to take advantage of just that. She was going to be a witch. A real proper witch. She even had her own pointy hat, as instructed on the school letter.

Back at the Dursley's, summer passed slowly. Spica kept to her new room, reading her textbooks, becoming acquainted with the newly-named Hedwig. It was depressing to be ignored by her relatives, even if it was an improvement from their constant bullying. However, Aunt Petunia's refusal to look at her did have an advantage: Spica was plotting. Now that she knew that the time that her hair had grown back was more than a freak accident but was magic, real magic, that she herself had done, Spica was determined to grow her hair out, at least to her shoulders. Desperately every night she brushed her hair, wishing with all her might that her hair would grow. None of her schoolbooks exactly said that was how it worked, but Spica didn't quite dare pull out her wand and try some real magic. Besides, wishing had gotten her out of all of her scrapes so far...

The wishing seemed to have done it as Spica packed her trunk for the last day of school. Her curly hair was just past the tops of her shoulders now. Spica had managed some messy buns that disguised the length during her infrequent interactions with Aunt Petunia. For tomorrow, she had a different plan of attack: a hat. Dudley had been given some truly awful ones that had in turn been given to her. She'd never been desperate enough to wear them yet, but in light of the fashions she had seen at Diagon Alley, hers was hardly notable.

Following this new tradition of Aunt Petunia pretending not to notice her, Aunt Petunia barely sniffed at her outrageous hat. Spica didn't even care as she walked into the whole station of full of strangers looking askance at her. Her cheerfulness was not about to disappear because of a few outrageous looks when, for the first time in Spica's memory she'd managed to get from the 31st to the 1st without a haircut. Though her enthusiasm did dim somewhat when the Dursley's drove off, leaving her utterly confused on how to get on the platform. Fortunately, good people still existed in the world—Spica was grateful for the redheads and their owl who not only helped her find the platform but helped her find a compartment on the train.

Spica took advantage of being left alone for a few minutes after the departure of the red-headed twins, the Weasleys, to pull out her Hogwarts robes and to pull her hair out of the messy knot that had allowed her to hide the new, magical length from the Dursleys. She hoped that she’d get to meet some people before they arrived at Hogwarts and she didn’t want a repeat of what had happened in Madam Malkins.

Just as she finished anxiously brushing her hair with her fingers wishing she had a mirror, she heard voices right outside her window. She peered out the window covertly. It was the red-haired family that had directed her to the platform. For a few minutes Spica imagined growing up with siblings. Even as she heard the twins teasing their brothers, she contrasted that sharply with life at the Dursleys.

Spica made herself stop before she pitied herself too much. The Dursleys were behind her and whatever was ahead simply had to be better.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. The youngest red-head from the platform was standing there looking as nervous as Spica herself felt.   


"Anyone sitting there? Everywhere else is full." Spica indicated that it was fine with her and gingerly the boy sat down. It was awkward for a few moments, but thankfully the boy—Ron—broke the silence. By the time the candy trolley had come around, Spica felt she was well on her way to making her first classmate friend. Sadly, the pair did not remain undisturbed for the whole journey. A tearful boy was looking for his toad, a bossy girl came by also looking for the boy's toad, and finally, the arrogant boy from the clothing shop stopped by. The last served as a forceful reminder to Spica that not everything was perfectly pleasant with this new world. 

"So it's you, is it," the blond boy drawled as he stepped into their compartment with two boys who looked an awful lot like bodyguards to Spica. "You're Spica Black." Unsure if the boy recognized her from the shop—she hoped not given he'd thought her a boy there—or if he was just recognizing her famous name as Ron and Hermione had, Spica nodded. 

"Clearly you need a guide to the wizarding world. Some wizarding families are better than others. A Black shouldn't be associating with blood traitors like these." Incensed that the boy was having the gall to tell Spica who she should and shouldn't be associating with, Spica barely heard the boy say his name was Draco Malfoy. Glaring at the intruder, Spica replied:

"I think I can sort out who I am going to associate without you." The boy looked absolutely shocked by her words before a pink blush set across his face. Unfortunately, the boy regained his composure quickly and his two back-ups stepped forward to grab some candy. Spica glared even more as the resemblance to Dudley, which had been her first impression of Malfoy, deepened. Ron stood up beside her, providing a reassurance that she wasn't alone. However, Scabbers, Ron's unfortunate pet rat, turned the tide in their favor. After he bit Crabbe, the three boys fled angrily. Spica herself felt rather incensed that already a gang of boys was trying to bully her, just like with the Dursleys. But as Ron started to mutter about how Malfoy was the one with a disgraceful family, Spica felt a smile on her face. There might be bullies at Hogwarts too but already things were looking up because this time she wasn't standing up to them alone. She almost felt grateful to Malfoy for showing her that Hogwarts could be different. 

* * *

Though the welcoming feast had apparently made them all nice and sleepy, Spica found herself jerking back into alertness when the female prefect dropped the female first years off at their new door. Four beds were spread out in the circular room. For a moment, the girls stood, silent and intimidated (or at least Spica was hoping that they all felt what she did). But the one girl with curly brown hair who had seemed really bubbly during the meal sprang into action.

"Come on, Parvati, let's take these ones by the window." The first year with straight black hair—Parvati apparently—seemed eager to follow suit, pulling her trunk alongside her. That just left Hermione and Spica. Hermione picked the bed nearest the door, leaving Spica with the remaining middle bed. Almost mechanically, she began to unpack, both hesitant and determined. Fortunately the silence continued to be broken by sporadic giggles from the two apparent friends by the window. At a particularly loud giggle, Spica looked over. The one who was not Hermione (and Spica really needed to learn her name) was braiding Parvati's hair in some kind of braid that started right at the girl's forehead. Spica stopped to watch. The braider was exclaiming over her hair once she finished.   


"Can you braid mine?" Spica asked. The two girls looked over. The curly-haired one practically squealed. Over the next few minutes Spica found herself sitting down and having her hair carefully parted and plaited. The two girls (she'd learned the other one was Lavender) were delighted to have another head of hair. They had parted her hair in half and each girl was carefully braiding. 

"Would you like to have your hair braided too?" Lavender asked Hermione. Looking in the mirror, Spica saw Hermione stiffen from where she was unpacking. 

"I have studying to do for classes tomorrow," she replied. A sense of awkwardness descended. Was Hermione implying that they were irresponsible for not diving into their textbooks? Spica hated the feeling. 

"What is this kind of braid called?" she asked, hoping to get conversation going again. Parvati and Lavender jumped on the conversation starter, telling Spica all about french braids. Lavender actually undid one of the braids to start teaching Spica how to do it. Spica didn't really get it so far, but Lavender assured her that they could work on it every day the following week. Going to bed that night, Spica smiled; already Hogwarts felt more homey than Privet Drive. 

* * *

It was one of the great ironies that once Spica was able to grow her hair out from the horrendous boy cut of Aunt Petunia’s, she looked more like her father. Sirius Black had always worn his hair long and hanging around his face and Spica had inherited the dark, loose, natural curls from him. This news was something of a revelation to Spica, who had never seen pictures of her parents. Apparently she looked like a Black. There was something in her that she shared with her family.   


That was the most pleasant discovery of the first weeks at Hogwarts. The less pleasant ones included that people in the corridors whispered about her as she passed, that the potions master absolutely hated her, and that magic was apparently more than just waving a wand. Still, Spica couldn't contain her enthusiasm that she was here, learning magic, making friends, and finding out a little bit about her past. It made all the other inconveniences worth it. 

But the most pleasant discovery was how delightful it was to share school with a friend. Ron wasn't deterred by all the whispers or the difficulties. They got into the habit of meeting in the Common Room to head down to breakfast and then they shared all of the same classes. For the first time, school was not all loneliness. 

* * *

Spica was slight of build, easily the smallest of all the first years gathered on the lawn for flying lessons. But as Malfoy started making fun of Neville, the incautious side of her that had always snarked at the Dursleys no matter how much they punished her met with the long repressed anger at Dudley and his bullying. Spica stepped forward with determination. She was here, at Hogwarts, with magic, and all the prattishness of Draco Malfoy wouldn’t stand for long if she decided to act.

So act she did. An impromptu broomflight later, she found herself following nervously in the wake of Professor McGonagall.

What followed was a whirlwind and somewhat confusing conversation about Quidditch. Despite the confusion, Wood and the Professor left Spica with secret excitement. Wood returned to class and Professor McGonagall to whatever she had been doing, leaving Spica alone in the hall.

She released a long sigh, the tension leeching out of her body now that the worst seemed to be over. She wasn’t leaving Hogwarts. Realizing her fingers were still squeezed tightly around the orb in her hand, Spica remembered that she still had Neville’s remembrall. Flying class didn’t seem to be over yet but she hadn’t been ordered to go back to it….

Decision made, Spica headed off in the direction of what she’d heard was the infirmary. The double doors were heavy and wide, like so many others in the castle. Cautiously, Spica pushed one open, peeking around the corner into a cavernous room. The walls were lined with beds and a woman she assumed was the nurse was hovering over a blond boy at the end of the left row. Slipping in quietly, Spica headed toward Neville. She waited patiently a few steps out of the way. Without looking at her, the nurse bustled away towards an office.

“Hello,” she said quietly to Neville. He was just staring at her. Nervously she held up the remembrall. “You dropped this.”

He held out his hand to take it. As Spica dropped the clear ball into his palm, she realized something. “This is the wrist you broke!” she exclaimed.

Neville blushed tomato red beneath his blond hair. Unlike when Dudley turned pink in anger, Spica wasn’t tempted to compare him to a pig in a wig. He just looked embarrassed. 

“Madam Pomfrey fixed it in about a minute,” Neville admitted.

“I love magic,” Spica exhaled, fascinated by the fact that injuries could be fixed so easily. No wonder they let children fly on broomsticks at ridiculous heights. In her experience at primary school, teachers had always been so concerned about safety that many of the most enjoyable games had been burdened with so many safety precautions to not be nearly as much fun.

“I didn’t realize I dropped this,” Neville said quietly, looking at the remembrall instead of at her. Following that same, often repressed impulse to make friends since Dudley wasn’t here to beat them up (the same impulse that she’d followed on the train to befriend Ron), Spica plopped down on the side of the bed.

“It fell out when you fell down,” Spica answered. She debated for a minute, not wanting to sound self-aggrandizing but not wanting Neville to be out of the loop. “Malfoy picked it up. He threatened to leave it up at the top of a tree.” Neville’s head jerked up, his eyes widening at this, his hands clasping the bauble unconsciously. “I told him to stop being a prat. He hopped up on a broom, so I hopped up on mine. Realizing I’d called his bluff, he threw it away. Stupid really, because then I was able to get it. Anyway, I thought you would like it back.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, it was from your grandmother,” Spica said, sidestepping acknowledging the gratitude. “I don’t have any grandparents.” She paused awkwardly. She didn’t have grandparents it was true but now she was wondering why she felt the need to explain that to Neville.

“I just have my Gran,” Neville said. “I’ve lived with her since I was one.”

Spica looked up from where she’d been studying the hospital linens, meeting Neville’s eyes. He was an orphan too! She felt a kinship with this boy. She was grateful for Ron’s friendship but he hadn’t seemed to realize how special it was to have the family he had…even Percy.

“I’ve lived with my aunt and uncle since I was one,” she replied with a shy smile. Neville returned it. Nothing more needed to be said. Spica was a bit unsure about how friends really worked, but she had a feeling that Neville had just become one. Not the same way that Ron was, but a friend nonetheless.

“You coming to supper?”

Neville shook his head, the blush coming back. “I thought I’d stay in the hospital wing a bit longer. The others don’t need to know that Madam Pomfrey healed it so quickly, do they?” Spica grinned.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

* * *

When Spica woke up on November 1st, she was surprised to see a fully dressed and ready Hermione still in the room. Almost from the first day, Hermione had gotten ready and left before Spica was ready to leave. Spica would meet Ron down in the common room and they would go to breakfast together. But today, Hermione was waiting for her. Though she was sitting primly on the edge of her own bed, Spica thought she looked nervous. Smiling reassuringly at the other girl, Spica sat up. 

"I'll try to shower quickly. Ron isn't the earliest of risers so we have a bit before we should meet him in the common room." Hermione looked relieved at Spica's words. After Spica got out of the shower and was working on a french braid (she'd improved a lot since Lavender first showed her how that first week but it still usually took her two tries to get a presentable braid), Hermione was still there. 

"I was thinking I should revise my Charms essay on Wingardium Leviosa after how Ron used the troll's club to knock the troll out last night, but Professor McGonagall seemed so upset that perhaps Professor Flitwick will be too. But now that we've seen it in real-life action, I feel that I completely misunderstood the relevance of Wizard Baruffio--"

"Hermione, stop," Spica said with a laugh. "I'm certain that whatever you wrote was fine." She paused, thinking about what Hermione had just said. "Though I am glad Ron said the words right last night. I don't think the bathroom was big enough for a buffalo as well as a troll." Both girls met eyes for a moment, and then burst out laughing at the image. "Who do you think would win, a troll or a buffalo?" 

They were still debating the particulars when they met up with Ron. It didn't surprise Spica that Hermione was well versed on buffalo (random knowledge seemed very in character for her) and Spica thought she was making some compelling points. Ron, once he was apprised of the debate, immediately took the side of the troll, pointing out it was a magical creature ("Magic isn't everything, Ronald," Hermione had argued). As the three walked to breakfast, Spica grinned. She let the other two take the lead on the debate and just enjoyed the fact that now they were apparently three. 

* * *

"'Your godfather, James Potter, left this in my possession before he died. It was time that it was passed on to you. Use it well.'" Spica finished reading the note aloud, looking up at Ron in confusion. "I had a godfather?"   


Ron was staring at the note in concentration. "I think I've heard of him. I think he died the same night as your parents. Mum didn't know I was listening, but I think I heard her talking to Dad about how a good friend of your parents was one of the few who knew where you were hiding and they were killed the same night your parents were." Spica mulled that information over in her head. Though she hadn't known that she had even been given a godfather, to know that she had lost the person her parents wanted to look out for her the same night that she lost her parents was sad. Her parents had planned that someone should look out for her. Aunt Petunia had been fond of telling her that she'd been left unwanted on the doorstep, but there had been someone else.

Spica was still lost in thought when the Weasley twins burst into the common room. Hastily she shoved the clock under the sofa, and let herself be distracted from the antics of the Weasley boys. But that night, she stared up at her ceiling, unable to sleep for thinking about the past. She now knew of three people who had died that Halloween night so long ago: Sirius Black, Lily Black, and James Potter. She wished she knew more about them. Had her parents known about her godfather's invisibility cloak? Had they used it at Hogwarts? Suddenly the whole of the castle open to her and the night felt brim full of possibilities. She could go exploring. Glancing over at Hermione's empty bed as Spica threw some shoes and her Weasley sweater on, Spica was grateful her friend wasn't here to protest the rule breaking. But Spica was doing it for a good cause. She could...go to the library, she thought piously. Surely Hermione would have no reason to protest then. 

* * *

Death became aware the instant his future master touched one of the hallows for the first time. He hadn't checked in on her since Halloween, the anniversary of her first near Death encounter (and Death had not been at all pleased to watch Spica try to take down a troll. He had never encountered her before she had become his master and he supposed he'd thought that headstrong recklessness had come with her increased abilities. She'd apparently been tempting fate at age eleven). The moment that Spica truly took possession of her first of his hallows though was unmistakable. Putting a hold on where he had been collecting the soul of an elderly man, Death quickly shifted to view Spica. She was in the Gryffindor common room, standing with her redheaded friend, gently touching the invisibility cloak. She'd been more prone to giggling when she'd seen the cloak as a toddler than this awe, but it still made the being feel nostalgic. Interested to see what she would do with it, Death kept an eye out for her. She donned the cloak temporarily, but it wasn't until late that night that she really put it on.   


Contrary to popular belief, as perpetuated by the Tales of Beedle the Bard, the invisibility cloak didn't hide the wearer from Death the being. It was a protection against death the event. The desire of Ignotus Peverell had been to protect and to avoid the needless dangers that the eldest Peverell brother had so recklessly courted. So Death had given him a cloak that was impenetrable to human eyes, that protected the wearer from being discovered by those that would harm. In short, it was a protection from the seeing eyes of mortals; if other mortals could not see him, they could not bring death to him. It wasn't a protection from the being Death. It was Death's own invisibility that powered the cloak and he remained very conscious of it, even after all these centuries. 

Spica ended her wanderings standing in the room with an elegant mirror, the mirror of desires. Death, though he hadn't experienced these particular events with Spica yet, knew that what made Spica a strong master, a friend even, was her heart. He himself had become demoralized with the petty cruelties and rampant injustices humans had managed to promulgate and had become consumed with a vengeance. That had been the first day he had met her; she was courageous in the face of his destruction. But more important, she was lovely. She had acknowledged all the evils of the world and defended it all on the beauty and power of love. That, she had argued, was what trumped all the rest. But when had she developed this ability? It was curious to see the person she'd been before she had met him.   


Death's future master stood staring at the mirror, transfixed. Though she had spun around in alarm, trying to spot something behind her (whatever was presumably in the reflection she saw), she had since turned back and taken a step closer. "Mum? Dad?" the girl whispered, pressing a hand to the glass. At this Death felt great relief. Spica, at heart, remained much as he'd known her to be: focused on connection. 

* * *

If Death had found his future master's seeking out trolls and nearly falling off of broomsticks disconcerting, he found that he was entirely unprepared for the spring when Spica, three other children, and the gamekeeper trudged into the forest where the shade of Voldemort inhabiting Quirrell was feeding on unicorns. The whole situation was messy. It aggravated Death that Riddle continued to seek out ways to foil him. Weren't horcruxes enough? But no, Riddle had to go drinking unicorn blood. When Spica stumbled upon the scene, Death felt a pre-emptive fury. She was young, practically defenseless. If Riddle hadn't had horcruxes Death would have...

Fortunately for the world at large, a centaur interfered before Death enacted anything too dangerous for Earth to handle. He heard the centaur tell Spica about the uses of unicorn blood (he grinned to hear Spica champion that it was better to die than to be cursed forever) and about the Philosopher's Stone. Death wasn't overly fond of the stone. It was better than horcruxes to be sure. And it wasn't that nobody was allowed to have an extremely long lifetime...there were several beings from various universes that were granted that privilege. It was just so typical of humans to try to thwart death. Horcruxes, Philosopher Stones, Unicorn Blood. Death would need to be keeping a closer eye on his young friend. 

Only a short while later, Spica, with her two friends in tow (Death felt for the Longbottom boy, left behind and petrified), went on a quest to stop Riddle from gaining the stone. The whole thing was a death trap for eleven-year-olds. The first three tasks were accomplished quickly and without injury, to Death's satisfaction. Then Spica's companions were left behind, first Ron Weasley with the chess set, then Hermione Granger in the potions room. Death hovered as close to Spica as he could as the girl stepped through the flames and into one more confrontation with her would-be killer. 

As Quirrell unwrapped his turban to show Tom Riddle's distorted visage peeking out of the back of his head, Death felt the same revulsion as Spica. Such a state was not meant for any man. The posturing of the madman as he tried to tempt Spica to join him just served as further reminder that, for all of his arrogance, Tom Riddle understood nothing of importance. 

"Better save your own life and join me," the deformed man hissed, "or you'll meet the same end as your parents." Death held himself still, awash with the memories of that night. Spica would one day come to understand the type of love that sacrificed itself for other people so she would in a way, meet the same end as her parents. But for now, even at only eleven, and knowing so little of direct kindness, Spica stood firm. In the ensuing confrontation, she held nothing back. Death almost wished that she would have had a sense of self-preservation as the little girl fought off a grown man and the soul fragment. If Death had been alarmed at her dangerous escapades before, he was horrified as the little girl lost consciousness, even as he eagerly collected Quirrell's soul. Riddle's fragment flew off, but Death took satisfaction in knowing he'd get Tom Riddle eventually. 

But even as he went about the business of claiming Quirrell--pulling him from the mortal realm to wait in the inbetween metaplane until he could properly deal with him--Death hovered near Spica. She was so injured, and Riddle was hissing nearby. Worried that Riddle might decide to seek the weakened body as his next shelter, Death thought hastily as to what he could do. He flipped through his memories of Spica, of the previous times she had popped into this very universe. There was something that she had started, a spell that would bring her to safety if she was near Death. Ah, yes, Grimmauld Place, a haven to the Spica Black he knew. It was the ancestral home of the Blacks after all. And Spica was very much the black heir. Sending a small tendril of magic towards her small body, Death nudged the once and future spellwork into working in this case. As Riddle howled and tried to get near her, Spica's body disappeared. 

Albus Dumbldore had arrived at the chamber moments before this happened, h ad been witness to Quirrell’s lifeless and burned corpse collapsing as a malevolent and bodiless form rose out of the back of his head. Death assumed the old wizard had identified the hissing wraith as Tom Riddle but had no chance to capture the spirit before the soul fragment fled. The headmaster’s focus had been on the innocent and possibly dying little girl on the floor.

Death was aware that Dumbledore would panic, but his first concern was his future master. Spica, even unconscious, was under the protection of forces and magic far beyond her current understanding. There was so little Death could do for her, but the protection from a vengeful Riddle for a few critical hours was still important. That, however, was as far as Death could interfere at the moment. With a sort of sigh, he focused his attention back on Quirrell. As a dead man he was entirely under Death's purview and Death had some ideas about where Quirrell's soul would be staying for the next bit of eternity. After all, that man had threatened Spica's well-being multiple times this year, threatened her when she was vulnerable and her status as Master of Death was not assured. Oh yes, if Death couldn't interfere with Spica anymore, he could deal with this man and his truly terrible life choices. 

* * *

As Spica's small, unaware body landed in the dusty vestibule of a house, she was startled aware by a bout of shrieking.

“…dares to enter my house! Blood traitors! Mudbloods! Creature! CREATURE!”

Spica sat up warily. Though her body ached all over, she had had a childhood where screaming boded no good for her. She was especially attuned to the shrieks of outraged females so she dragged her eyes open to look around. For a moment, with all the screaming, she had thought she was back at Privet Drive, that the whole wizarding world—up to and including Voldemort—was a bizarre dream. The dust reassured her; this level of dirt would never be allowed by Aunt Petunia.

The place was completely unknown to her. Dust motes swirled around her, reacting to her arrival—evidently the only thing that had disturbed the house in quite some time. The room was dim and warily Spica reached for her wand. She pulled herself more upright, though still leaning on her hands, when she realized her wand was missing. She must have dropped it when she was fending of Quirrell.   


Meanwhile, the shrieks continued. “Thieves! Vagabonds! Murderers!” The screaming seemed to be coming from the portrait on the wall. Spica realized she was somewhere magical since the painted image both moved and shouted. The Hogwarts paintings were much friendlier.

Before she could entirely hoist herself onto her feet, a mumbling creature popped into existence in front of her. Spica scuttled backwards but the thing, whatever it was, had its back to her. She noticed the large drooping ears and the dirty pillowcase. Both felt terribly impolite to be all that she noticed. But not knowing what this thing was, and seeing it only from the back, she didn't know what else to look for. Silently she tried to stand up, listening all the while.

"Creature is here, Mistress. Creature will not allow any thieves into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." The being continued soothing the irate portrait but Spica had lost attention to the action while becoming hyper-aware of the details. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, like the goblins had mentioned at Gringotts? Her Blacks? Did she have more family?

Before Spica had managed to figure out an answer to any of these questions, the portrait stopped screaming and allowed the being to turn around. She could only presume that the portrait had decided that screaming about thieves only went so far towards apprehending them. The little thing had turned around, displaying two golfball sized eyes staring accusingly at her.

"Who dares to disturb my mistress' home?" the thing croaked. Spica disliked not knowing what it was; she hadn't liked the screaming portraits penchant for calling it creature when it clearly was a talking, thinking being, but she had no idea what it or he or she was.

"I'm Spica Black," she offered, wishing she had enough energy to get off the floor.

"Black?" It was perhaps her imagination but the eyes seemed a trifle less hostile. "Creature serves the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. They all left Creature alone. Mistress Bella and Mistress Cissy haven't come back. Good Master Regulus," here the little being became overcome with distress. Not quite knowing what to do, she smiled weakly at him.

"I don't know who you are referring to, but my father was Sirius Black. And the goblins took me to the vault of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black before I started school."

"Bad Master Sirius had a daughter? An heir?" the little fellow didn't seem to know whether to settle for disgust at the mention of her father or elation that there was a Black in front of him. The portrait started screaming and Spica realized that despite all the dangers of screaming females, she really couldn't continue fighting off the pain and exhaustion from facing Quirrell. She slumped over, leaving the screaming all behind. 


End file.
